It went on in its destructive work. It had already shatteredfour other guns and made two gaps in the side of the ship，fortunately above the water-line， but where the water wouldcome in， in case of heavy weather. It rushed frantically againstthe framework； the strong timbers withstood the shock； thecurved shape of the wood gave them great power of resistance；but they creaked beneath the blows of this huge club， beatingon all sides at once， with a strange sort of ubiquity. Thepercussions of a grain of shot shaken in a bottle are not swifteror more senseless. The four wheels passed back and forth overthe dead men， cutting them， carving them， slashing them， tillthe five corpses were a score of stumps rolling across the deck；the heads of the dead men seemed to cry out； streams of bloodcurled over the deck with the rolling of the vessel； the planks，damaged in several places， began to gape open. The wholeship was filled with the horrid noise and confusion.
The captain promptly recovered his presence of mind andordered everything that could check and impede the cannon’smad course to be thrown through the hatchway down on thegun-deck—mattresses， hammocks， spare sails， rolls of cordage，bags belonging to the crew， and bales of counterfeit assignats，of which the corvette carried a large quantity—a characteristicpiece of English villainy regarded as legitimate warfare.
But what could these rags do？ As nobody dared to go belowto dispose of them properly， they were reduced to lint in a fewminutes.
There was just sea enough to make the accident as bad aspossible. A tempest would have been desirable， for it mighthave upset the cannon， and with its four wheels once in theair there would be some hope of getting it under control.
Meanwhile， the havoc increased.
There were splits and fractures in the masts， which are setinto the framework of the keel and rise above the decks ofships like great， round pillars. The convulsive blows of thecannon had cracked the mizzenmast， and had cut into themainmast.
The battery was being ruined. Ten pieces out of thirty weredisabled； the breaches in the side of the vessel were increasing，and the corvette was beginning to leak.
The old passenger having gone down to the gun-deck， stoodlike a man of stone at the foot of the steps. He cast a sternglance over this scene of devastation. He did not move. Itseemed impossible to take a step forward. Every movementof the loose carronade threatened the ship’s destruction. A fewmoments more and shipwreck would be inevitable.
They must perish or put a speedy end to the disaster； somecourse must be decided on； but what？ What an opponentwas this carronade！ Something must be done to stop thisterrible madness—to capture this lightning—to overthrow thisthunderbolt.
Boisberthelot said to La Vieuville：
“Do you believe in God， chevalier？”
La Vieuville replied：
“Yes—no. Sometimes.”
“During a tempest？”
“Yes， and in moments like this.”
“God alone can save us from this，” said Boisberthelot.
Everybody was silent， letting the carronade continue itshorrible din.
Outside， the waves beating against the ship respondedwith their blows to the shocks of the cannon. It was like twohammers alternating.
Suddenly， in the midst of this inaccessible ring， where theescaped cannon was leaping， a man was seen to appear， withan iron bar in his hand. He was the author of the catastrophe，the captain of the gun， guilty of criminal carelessness， andthe cause of the accident， the master of the carronade. Havingdone the mischief， he was anxious to repair it. He had seizedthe iron bar in one hand， a tiller-rope with a slip-noose in theother， and jumped， down the hatchway to the gun-deck.
Then began an awful sight； a Titanic scene； the contestbetween gun and gunner； the battle of matter and intelligence；the duel between man and the inanimate.
The man stationed himself in a corner， and， with bar andrope in his two hands， he leaned against one of the riders，braced himself on his legs， which seemed two steel posts； andlivid， calm， tragic， as if rooted to the deck， he waited.
He waited for the cannon to pass by him.
The gunner knew his gun， and it seemed to him as if thegun ought to know him. He had lived long with it. How manytimes he had thrust his hand into its mouth！ It was his ownfamiliar monster. He began to speak to it as if it were his dog.
“Come！” he said. Perhaps he loved it.
He seemed to wish it to come to him.
But to come to him was to come upon him. And then hewould be lost. How could he avoid being crushed？ That wasthe question. All looked on in terror.
Not a breast breathed freely， unless perhaps that of the oldman， who was alone in the battery with the two contestants， astern witness.
He might be crushed himself by the cannon. He did not stir.
Beneath them the sea blindly directed the contest.
At the moment when the gunner， accepting this frightfulhand-to-hand conflict， challenged the cannon， some chancerocking of the sea caused the carronade to remain for an instantmotionless and as if stupefied. “Come， now！” said the man.
It seemed to listen.
Suddenly it leaped toward him. The man dodged the blow.
The battle began. Battle unprecedented. Frailty strugglingagainst the invulnerable. The gladiator of flesh attacking thebeast of brass. On one side， brute force； on the other， a humansoul.
All this was taking place in semi-darkness. It was like theshadowy vision of a miracle.
